Page 13 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

And he was about to cut down her brother in a sennight’s time. Fok.

Chapter Four

Day Two – Lughnasadh Harvest Festival 1547. The Horserace

The morning air was charged. Crisp. Tormund flexed his fingers in the reins, creaking the leather. Nykr, his massive destrier, was restless for a jaunt, tossing his ghostly head and stomping his dapple-gray rear.

He glanced once again at the ladies gathered along the bunting, waving kerchiefs, cheering the riders they favored. His search was once again in vain, desperate for a glance at his forbidden lover. What if I seeded her belly? He’d slept like shite last night. No good for the race today when his people’s livelihood hinged on his success. Hell, his body tingled with memories just thinking about her.

Where in the hell was she? James hadn’t taken her home already, had he? Humorous that he was thinking so hard on her, too, because why the hell did he care? Last night was the biggest mistake he’d ever made, but she’d wanted it, too, begged him for it. He’d given her time and again to walk away. Recognizing her wouldn’t mean shite, because should she find out who he was, she’d be mortified and run fast the other way. Except as he faced forward again, he spied Angus MacDonald, MacDonald’s chosen rider, in the line-up. If she were here, surely she’d come to cheer her cousin, but she was nowhere.

Be damned, he was looking for her again.

“Riders at the ready!”

Focus, man.

On a growl, he faced forward, straightening his shoulders and squinting into the stark morning sunshine slanting between the distant Cairngorms carpeted in green velvet and lavender heather. Lavender. He groaned. He couldn’t lose this purse. His enemies could say all they wanted about him, but he didn’t reave for no reason. He earned his coin fairly. But thanks to MacDonald, the grains he would have sold through trade to bring his clan more prosperity had gone up in smoke.

Nykr tossed his head again, anxious to jump the start.

He needed to get his head in this race and put aside his irritation. He might have come here to smoke out an enemy and deliver long-overdue justice, but his people were depending on him to win this coin if they hoped to stock their pantries for winter and resupply their seed stock for next year’s planting.

The flag dropped. He held Nykr back for a heartbeat as the riders on either side bolted forward, a thundering mass of destriers.

All would love to disqualify him for the slightest misstep, so he’d let them get a lead.

“Now.”

He tightened his knees, bareback on Nykr’s coarse, warm fur. The stallion bolted into a gallop. Long, steady strides.

He blazed past Alasdair MacNicol, whose sire wanted to marry him to Brighde—Christ! That irritation spiraled again, just imagining MacNicol betwixt her legs.

Passed Laird Lindsey’s son.

Passed the Campbell laird whose clan was running the tavern tent and whose wench had annoyed him last night. Nay, he’d found an angel instead, and he still couldn’t get her sweet scent, gentle touch, and playful smiles out of his mind. He’d sensed her melting, learning, burning with a newly lit flame. He’d been the one to do that, and the memory of it was bloody bittersweet.

Passed Angus MacDonald, one of his biggest namhaids. Good riddance. He wanted Devil MacDonald’s bollocks strung about his neck like a trophy and his heart lodged on Tormund’s pike for all to see as they sailed by Stornoway Castle.

He wove between horses, slipped past others, stretching out his lead, closing the distance with those ahead of him, as the steady cadence of hammering hooves lulled him into a trance, the rocking of Nykr’s rhythm became a sea swell beneath him, until it was just him and one other, far ahead…a lad?

Anger nipped. He needed to get closer to determine if he was right. Lads were forbidden from racing.

He wound along the riverbank meandering through this glen, ducked beneath tree boughs. Inching closer to the opponent still leading him. Aye, it was a lad.

He nudged Nykr harder. His stallion panted. Felt the tickle of his good luck charm—soft, silky hair belonging to the most mesmerizing enemy lass—against his pectoral, cinched to his chest beneath his sheath straps as if her purity would rub off on him.

They entered a wood. He wove and ducked and urged poor Nykr on, his beast lathered in sweat. An ominous red strip of tartan woven around the lad’s shoulders grew into clarity as he finally gained another length on the rider.

MacDonald red. Fok. Clan MacDonald had two riders in the race? Not good. Time to bury this wee bastard.

Tormund sank his heels into Nykr’s sides. His pulse pounded as his proud yellow and blue kilt billowed behind him on the wind. The two of them burst out of the trees onto the river’s edge, heading toward the final stretch. Wildflowers blurred by. Tumbled rocks, pebbled banks. He banged Nykr’s belly, urging his beloved beast onward, arms moving in rhythm with Nykr’s neck, inching closer, closer, as the finish ribbon wavered tiny in the distance.

The prize money for winning this race that his people so desperately needed was slipping through his fingers. Yet the Demon of the Seas never gave up on a challenge! Life had done nothing but throw challenges in his path like barley grains at a wedding. And he’d made an art form of slicing each challenge down.

He inched closer still, reaching the rider’s rump. Tormund’s eyes narrowed against the plume of dust kicking up into his face. Lips thinned, he gained a few inches, just close enough, he could reach out and touch the lad. So young, the lad’s hair tied in a tribal knot at the base of his neck threatening to jostle loose and was still so golden, it was almost as light as his angel’s hair last night. The lad likely couldn’t even shave yet.

He crept nearer, reaching the lad’s side. Neck and neck. Broke an inch into the lead.